


Hatchling

by twistedthicket1



Series: Hum like a Honey Bee [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Dragonlock, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, Parenthood, Parentlock, Smauglock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1705178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedthicket1/pseuds/twistedthicket1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dating a Dragon occasionally did yield some benefits, John supposed. There was the constant gift-giving, the ability that his boyfriend had of being a living space heater even in the dead of winter, and the few times that someone did actually decide to attack him (because unfortunately for John his and Sherlock's careers did occasionally require that they encounter dangerous criminals) he could always count on having a verified mythological creature to back him up in a pinch. Not to mention the sex was phenomenal.</p><p>Yes, living with a Dragon did have some advantages.</p><p>But when Sherlock comes home with a mysterious rock, John's world is about to be changed. Taking care of Sherlock is one thing, but an egg? something else entirely...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Egg

**Author's Note:**

> this is kind of an apology oneshot, as unfortunately I may not be posting for another couple of weeks in any of my stories ^.^'' I apologise in advance. Frankly, I'm going through some rough times right now, and don't really have it in me to write much. I should be okay by the end of June at latest. Again, so sorry. I hope you enjoy, this is sadness mixed with oodles of fluff.... it has nothing to do with "A Dragon's Soldier" but I wanted to play with the idea of Dragons again...

 

 

 

Dating a Dragon occasionally did yield some benefits, John supposed. There was the constant gift-giving, the ability that his boyfriend had of being a living space heater even in the dead of winter, and the fact that the few times that someone did actually decide to attack him (because unfortunately for John his and Sherlock's careers did occasionally require that they encounter dangerous criminals) he could always count on having a verified mythological creature to back him up in a pinch. Not to mention that the sex was phenomenal.

 

Generally when it got to the point that John considered this to be a blessing, he knew there was likely something wrong with him.

 

Still, there were times when John questioned his living arrangements, and that time seemed convinced to come on a day in which he woke up to his partner, with a decidedly determined expression, attempting to bury him in layer upon layer of blankets. John woke to the heavy, quilted underworld of a mound of sheets, the sweltering heat from the thick cotton already making sweat curl at the back of his neck. John sat up just in time to have a particularly weighted tan afghan flung at his shoulders, wrapping about his neck like a comical scarf even as he blinked blearily into the early morning dawn.

 

The sight before him was decidedly confusing, especially first thing on an early Sunday afternoon. Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed, stack of blankets tottering in one hand. The dark black horns that just peeked out of the dark mass of his curls seemed to glint in the red-orange that streamed from the window sill, mirroring sharply the glow in the Dragon-man's eyes even as he growled in protest at his partner's flailing.

 

“John! _Stay still!_ You're ruining it!”

He huffed, and for an instant the man's blue eyes turned gold and slitted, and smoke came out from between his teeth in irritation. A dark red, rather prehensile tail lashed agitatedly behind him, curling and uncurling by John's ankles. The army doctor stilled, unwilling to be pricked even accidentally by the thickly pointed scales at the end of that thrashing weapon.

 

John could only assume by the current state he was in and the slightly manic look in his partner's eyes that he had gotten accidentally caught up in one of Sherlock's more obscure experiments. His sigh was one of long-suffering patience and sleepiness, and Sherlock didn't seem to even register it on his radar, so consumed as he was in creating a blanket cocoon.

 

“Should I even ask?” John wondered aloud wryly, lying down and staring at the ceiling even as sweat began to collect and pool in the small of his back. In response his partner grunted something unintelligible, frowning at the lumped pile of blanket and army doctor before him. His hands rested on his hips as if in deep thought, and those irises glittered with speculation. Then, snarling curses, the dragon stalked out of the room, feet stomping even as he shouted something along the lines of _“It's all wrong!”_

 

John lay in bed for a moment longer, blinking wearily into the dark.

 

Then, with a small sigh of resignation, he forced himself to untangle from the sweaty, woollen mess.

 

Whatever was bothering the Dragon, it was likely he wouldn't find out right away.

It would be a guessing game it looked like, and John Watson despite his irritation found himself not for the first time willing to play.

 

****

There was a large rock sitting in the centre of _**221 B.**_ John blinked in surprise as he came from Sherlock's room to find it sitting comfortably in his chair, glinting faintly in the morning sun.

 

Sherlock like most dragons, had a habit of hoarding things. He took in objects that to most eyes would seem useless or perhaps even silly, and John had learned quickly not to react should he find oddities stocked in the broom closet, or body parts in the fridge. However an interest in geology the ex army doctor had to admit was new for the detective, and a rock of such size was not only strange, but mildly obstructive.

 

It was about the height of John's knee, and a bright, rosy colour shot through with streaks of darkest black and cream. Like a piece of hard-candy, all sharp and contrasting. It wasn't smooth, rather it looked almost layered like a massive pine-cone, layered and sharp, and its girth was just a shade wider than John's own waist. How Sherlock had managed to lug the thing all the way from whatever godforsaken beach which he had found it from, the army doctor couldn't say. What he did know however was that the consulting dragon had never brought something into the flat that looked quite so alien, nor had he ever appeared so protective. John hadn't really known what he was thinking when he had reached out almost curiously to touch the oblong shape of it- only that he had wondered if it was indeed solid all the way through.

 

Sherlock hadn't even been in the living-room to begin with, but he suddenly appeared in a flash, wings flared out defensively even as he climbed over the back of the chair, curling about the rock protectively and all but _hissing_ at John. The army doctor leaped back just in time to avoid being snapped at by his partner's unusually sharp teeth, and he let out a small gasp which quickly melted into annoyance when he saw how Sherlock eyed him with possessive mistrust.

 

“ _Easy_ , you great git! I was only going to touch it. No need to panic, it's not like I've ever broken anything of yours before.”

 

Sherlock did not appear to be soothed by his partner's words, clawed hands flexing restlessly even as the _Glamour_ that normally kept the veil of his Human façade stuttered with his anger. For a moment, John glared at not the normal image of the curly-haired detective, but a red and onyx dragon, snakelike and seething with its wing-tips quivering in suppressed, manic energy.

 

The ex-army doctor found his irritated amusement fading into true worry as Sherlock looked at him, for a moment more animal than man. Sherlock did not often looked this... rattled. It was an expression that normally only came in times of great danger, desperation or need.

 

“Hey...hey love, whatever is going on your head right now... I won't touch it again... I promise...You're safe here, it's just me...”

 

Still Sherlock didn't seem to relax straight away, and John frowned in worry before his detective seemed to blink once and come back to himself, albeit slowly.

 

John watched the entire thing with a mixture of apprehension and barely-suppressed hurt. Normally, Sherlock treated most of the world in this way. With a healthy dose of suspicion and barely-suppressed distaste. However John liked to think that he was the exception, that somehow he had softened the scaly git's somewhat impenetrable hide, just enough to be about to get through to him. Yet now Sherlock was looking at him as if he didn't quite trust him, and there was something wild in his posture, something decidedly aggressive. It was a total shift from the soft expression that usually graced the detective's face, and truthfully it was alarming. Pitching his voice low, John felt a true prickle of unease as he asked his partner

 

“Sherlock... Are you okay?”

 

The rumbling growls seemed to die slowly in the Dragon-man's throat, and somewhat guiltily his expression melted into something akin to regret and shame. His muttered apology was stiff and awkward, and the entire time the twisting twitch of his tail stroked restlessly over the smooth outer layer of the stone. Restless. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and the army doctor strained to hear even as in annoyance he huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“Come again?”

 

Louder. More of a growl. Sherlock twitched and shifted shamefully, his movements jerky as if he was barely aware of how tense he was. His blue eyes melted into gold, slitted and narrowed.

“ _Mine._ She's _Mine._ Can't send her away. MINE. MY FLAT. MY JOHN. MY MATE.” And Sherlock's eyes were suddenly huge and vulnerable, looking to his Mate with a question that the army doctor had the feeling he wouldn't like. The Dragon's voice was soft as he asked, fingers tightening over the stone, holding it to his chest. He looked as though he'd suddenly like to pull John closer as well, hide him in the expanse of his wings, which had sprouted from his back in a shower of sparks and brimstone. They quivered with indecision.

 

“...Mine?”

 

His expression was so soft, so fragile, that John found himself soothing the detective, even though he didn't understand. He didn't know what Sherlock was talking about, what had him so worked up. Yet the Dragon was so obviously distressed that the army doctor couldn't bring himself to even entertain the idea of upsetting him further. Sighing, John reassured his husband even as his anger melted away.

 

“Yours, 'Lock. Always yours. If you want to keep this... whatever it is, you can.” John then came forward slowly, making sure not to touch the stone even while settling in beside it. Even as he did Sherlock's wings wrapped themselves about the chair, shielding his two treasures protectively from all light and noise coming through the windows of _**221 B.**_ John felt Sherlock's lips press against his head gently, nuzzling him. A contented rumble made its way to the Dragon's lips at the contact.

 

“...Mine..” The Sherlock purred, and contorting himself expertly, somehow John found himself tucked in front of the detective, the rock in his lap as the Dragon managed to curl all three of them into the chair without issue. Hardly daring to breathe let alone move, John let himself be lulled into a sense of safety and drowsiness by his husband's warmth, by the rumbling hum pressed up against his ear.

 

It would only be later that John would question Sherlock's use of the word _She._

 

****

Dragons were by nature possessive.

 

John learned this in the early years of dating Sherlock, and very quickly he got into the habit of learning that his detective wasn't the only one with preconceived notions about what was _'His'._

 

The first time Mycroft kidnapped and interrogated him, John wasn't all that surprised. After all, Sherlock was family. What was more, the army doctor had his suspicions that the elder Holmes had practically raised the detective from when he was a Hatchling, making him less of a brother and more of a mum.

 

This theory had only been confirmed when without hesitation, the umbrella-wielding official had stood before him, teeth bared in a smile that was all edges as he stated agreeably “If you hurt him, I will ensure that there will be no country that will offer you safe harbour. Your head will become a trophy for trained killers everywhere to achieve, and your death will be slow and painful.” With extreme nonchalance, Mycroft spread the dark blue expanse of his wings threateningly, driving his point home with a menacing huff of smoke from his lips.

 

John tried not to pretend that to this day, the rather cold Dragon did indeed intimidate him.

 

So when Mycroft kidnapped him on the eve of a snowy winter only a few weeks after Sherlock had taken in his rock, John shifted nervously on the smooth upholstery of the elder Holmes' car. In a moment he was driven to a secure location, an abandoned warehouse of some kind. Grey and concrete and stoic, it stood in the London rain a demure cemetery, holding a colder shadow. This time, John wasn't wary or particularly on edge. Still, he knew that if Mycroft was calling, then something was up. He had the uncomfortable sensation that it had something to do with Sherlock. Then again, nearly everything in the good doctor's life did.

 

The ginger Dragon's gaze was cool as he leaned against the polished handle of his umbrella, ice-blue irises just barely slit as the faulty lights above them flickered sluggishly. John stepped forward, no longer limping like last time, a smile flicking on his features as he greeted his brother-in-law with a fond kind of shrug.

 

“Still can't bring yourself to use my phone? I mean, finding these places has to be a waste of someone's time.”

 

“Forgive me, John. But when it comes to matters of my brother, particularly matters of our... _condition_ I prefer a secure location in which I can discuss.” The lights fell to shadow. In the dark, Mycroft's eyes seemed to glow. Twin slits that rounded themselves back into their Human disguise with the light's return. The man's head was cocked to the side in an almost lazy manner, expression smooth and blank as his gaze slid over John, scanning him for something unknown. Automatically the army doctor straightened, chin jutting outwards defiantly. Living long enough with Sherlock made it instinct to refuse to be cowed by a simple stare-off. As disconcerting as those shifting eyes were, John was more worried about the state of Mycroft's hands. They were flexing on and off the handle of the brolly, almost... _Nervous._

 

Had it been anyone _but_ Mycroft Holmes, John would assume it to be anxiousness.

 

“Well, what is it that you need to say to me then? What must I watch out for this time, hm? Killer assassins? Vampyres? I mean, if _your_ kind are real surely I would guess that there are others... myths hidden in Human form.”

 

Mycroft did not deign John's question with a reply, instead answering with a question of his own.

“Tell me, has my brother told you... about the Mating habits of Dragons?”

 

At the narrowing of John's eyes, the elder Holmes smirked.

“Not much then. Did you know that between male and female Dragons, the females yield a significantly larger clutch? A male Dragon may only bear one egg in his lifetime, and yet they grow still so attached to it, even though its chances of it actually hatching are slim.”

 

The army doctor shifted uneasily, a slow prickling feeling humming at the back of his neck. His eyes were dark with unease. A question played on his lips, confusion evident in his posture, the stance of his legs.

“Mycroft...”

 

However the elder Holmes continued on, ignoring John's question as he spoke, looking at the twitching of his hands as if they were marginally more fascinating than the man standing before him.

“As a result male mothers of eggs tend to be overly protective. Instinct, you know. So much so that it's been shown that they'll even be wary of their own Mates during the waiting period between the birth and the Hatching. The eggs simply aren't as strong, something about the membrane of the shell... a tendency to crack, break. Sometimes the Hatchlings are still-born. Yet they try so hard...The grief from losing the egg alone can sometimes kill them-”

 

“ _Mycroft!”_ The soldier in John snarled to attention, pieces coming to click together even as his heart began to speed with realisation. Sherlock....No. _Impossible. And yet..._

The Dragon looked at the man impassively, a single brow raised. The faint, bland smile was still fixed to his face, and his expression was a lake. Calm. Unperturbed by the outburst.

John struggled to collect himself, hands tightening into fists even as the word _Hatchling_ hummed under his skin. In all of his life, John had never imagined wanting to be a father. He had never been one to dream of a wife and a picket fence, never been one to picture little legs running after a chubby dog in the front yard or caring for running noses and chicken-pox outside of his work. He hadn't ever... and when he had met Sherlock, what small lingering dreams of a small voice calling him _Papa_ had melted away, convinced that it was impossible.

 

Yet here Mycroft was, telling John that it was not only possible, but that it was _happening._ Worse, that it might go _wrong._ And quite suddenly, John felt him _want it._ The idea of wide blue eyes, peering out under a mop of riotous blonde curls. Little hands reaching for him, demanding attention. Sherlock, curled about a tiny figure, great wings stretched protectively as a babe slept in the crook of his elbow. All these images came to John with startling clarity, rocked him physically, and the violent fact that it might so soon be ripped away tore through the soldier, making him sway. His voice was tight, clawing with panic.

 

“W-why didn't he...?”

 

_He didn't tell me._

_**He didn't tell me. Instead he just expected me not to ask questions.** _

_How long would he have gone on not telling me?_

 

Mycroft answered by telling a story, his voice soft.

“When my grandfather gave birth to my mother, he didn't tell his Mate until the child was born. He hid the egg away, guarded it. Nearly went mad making up excuses as to why he had to leave. His Mate was a _Dragon_ , John. You are a Human. If he couldn't bring his own instincts to trust his own kind, do you really think Sherlock stands a chance of even _understanding_ his own? The very man who laughs at love, and yet would willingly kill thousands for your sake?”

 

John understood, then. He felt himself relax as the reasons were made clear to him, even as his mind still spun with the gut-dropping fear and surprising joy that had been thrust upon him (A _father,_ he was going to be a _father_ ). Sherlock hadn't spoken not because he hadn't wanted to, but because he _couldn't._ Quite abruptly, the scene with the chair made all the more sense. As did the Dragon's sudden protectiveness, his fear. He hadn't let John anywhere near the egg after that night, and had taken to wrapping it in soft scarves and his partner's jumpers. Hiding it in closets and in the bed and anywhere that was dark and quiet and _safe._ Sherlock in his own way _was_ trusting John in the sense that he was _Nesting_ in _**221 B**_ , he just didn't trust John enough to outright _tell_ him that they were having a _child._

 

It was so Sherlockian, that the army doctor found himself chuckling. The sound was almost hysterical, and Mycroft watched unamused as the man collected himself, shaking his head as his blue eyes glowed with determination. It didn't matter, in the end. For John wasn't leaving, couldn't any more, not even if he tried. Not because any one would stop him, but because he'd never be able to convince himself to do so in the first place. For a world without Sherlock.... was improbable. Rather, impossible. For John, it was like sentencing a man to his death.

 

“I'll protect them. If that's what you called me here for, you don't even have to ask. I'll protect... I love them, both. Already. Already... I love them both.”

 

It was true. Shockingly, endlessly, true. John did.

 

Mycroft saw that, his head inclining further in interest. Where he was taught that sentiment was never an advantage from a young age, John seemed to be taught that above all, love came first.

 

In this case, the government official thought that perhaps such foolishness was not so useless after all.

 

****

 

Sherlock never did come out and say it.

John came home and the detective looked up, and for a moment the Dragon's eyes widened in a fear that was not logical as much as instinctive. The detective curled about the egg in his chair, a snarl reaching his parted lips. He waited for yelling. He waited for his Mate to turn against his child- _MyeggnoonecantouchMINE-_ waited for betrayal.

 

Instead, he found John kneeling in front of Sherlock, knees braced against the hardwood floor. The man's fingers were warm as he reached out slowly, tentatively, smoothing gently over the ridged surface of the oval shape in his partner's arms. The Dragon froze, torn between a need to protect and the image of his partner before him, ear pressed wonderingly against the delicate shell. When John closed his eyes, he could feel the warmth of a new life beneath his cheek. Hear the rumbling of Sherlock's growls, slowly fading into a soft and vulnerable purr.

 More than that, when he closed his eyes, his husband reached out tentatively, long fingers winding themselves from their death-grip on their egg to run through John's short hair. The sensation was soothing, pleasant. Comforting.

 

No.

Sherlock never did say it out loud.

 But John didn't stay silent about it, either.

 

More than anything else, the army doctor was determined to have his partner trust him. When a few moments later the Dragon's spindly form shifted over to allow space on the couch, John gladly curled against Sherlock's chest. For the first time he held his child- their _egg_ in his hands, feeling its weight and _knowing_ what it was. It felt as though he were cupping a beating heart, and half of John was terrified. Mycroft's words came singing to him, low and haunting.

 

_Delicate membrane._

_Tendency to be still-born._

_The grief from losing the egg alone sometimes kills them._

 

Under his ear, Sherlock's heart trembled. It beat a staccato rhythm of fear and love, spoken in the way the Dragon's pale arms wrapped about John, shielding as much as holding in place. Guarding lest the egg slip, drop. In that moment, John looked down at his child-to-be, marvelling at the colours and streaks lining the egg like fire underneath molten stone. He found himself whispering assurances into the silence of the flat, the first being “I love you.” and the second being “and I won't let them die.”

 

****

The egg was cold.

Colder than it should be.

 

John noticed it as he woke, hands instinctively seeking out the rough sphere even as his sleepy mind noted the fact that Sherlock was up, rifling through John's drawers with all the manic of an addict searching for a hit. Blinking, it took the soldier a second to realise that the feeling of the egg was off, that it no longer burned like a furnace like it had begun doing about four weeks in its arrival. Instead it lay ashen and cool under his skin. For a moment, John's heart plummeted down into his stomach.

 

In the next instant he was sitting up, shrugging off the sleep-shirt he was wearing, slipping it over the egg even as Sherlock came running back to the bed, brandishing in his arms layers of jumpers. The Dragon's hands were trembling as he gathered the bed's comforter around the spherical container that held their would-be child, a panicked whimper wrenching itself from the detective's throat as he slipped John's ugly Christmas Jumper over the egg's surface. Sherlock then pressed himself over the egg, covering it with his body, the next second reaching out for John to drag him closer as well. Under his breath John's partner muttered in panicky syllables, something painful hitching his voice as he assessed the state of the egg between them.

 

“Temperature is ten degrees below normal rate, possibly due to an extinguishing of the child's fire-core prematurely. Prolonged cold could induce early death in the child if their core does not restart. If temperature does not increase within twenty minutes induce heat by breathing fire.” The mumbled observations caused a tightness to form in John's stomach, and he found himself pressing his middle over the hard ridges of the egg. In his own way, he too began to speak, but it was more a litany. A prayer.

 

“Come on, little one. You can do it. We're only just beginning, can't give up now.” He pressed a hand then to the egg, smoothing his palm over it. John felt something hot and hard lodge itself in his throat as he felt only coolness. Above him Sherlock shook.

 

For five minutes there was only tense muttering, embracing, and the panicky, sinking feeling of having something unnameable and fragile dissolve in one's fingers like sand. John counted his breaths, forcing them to be even, even as Sherlock's breathing became more panicked and hiccuped, reaching hyperventilation. The Dragon after ten agonising minutes let out a pained moan through their teeth, John watching as Sherlock's skin rippled, becoming brilliant scales before slipping back into his Human charade. His partner's tail curled about them, lashing in as much desperation as in fear.

 

Neither man dared to breathe until John felt the faintest fluttering of heat beneath his fingertips. At first certain it was imagined his breath caught, a burning feeling in the back of his eyes stinging as he waited, baited by hope.

 

For a moment, the shell remained cold.

 

Then, like a licking tendril of heat, sun spread beneath his palm. Fire, humming just beneath the shell. John let out a shaky cry of surprise, the next moment taking Sherlock's fisted hands and pulling them away from their mauling of the sheets. He pressed the Dragon's palm to the shell, crying out a jubilant shout.

“Sherlock! They're doing it! She-He... they're doing it!”

John watched as his parter's red-rimmed eyes widened, the Dragon's body curling closer even as a low crooning song came from Sherlock's lips. The detective held the egg to his chest, rocking and humming in relief, wings quivering from stress even as he pressed John on the other side, as much preserving the heat that was building between them as for comfort purposes.

 

The army doctor wasn't surprised when a moment later, Sherlock's head ducked down to his chest, and a shaking took his partner that made the bed tremble. John's hands were steadying forces as they stroked Sherlock's shoulder's, his own tears making it hard to see.

 

Between them, the egg pulsed on, oblivious to their own parent's elated relief. Their fear.

 

It was the first time John thought he might lose something, and the first time he caught an echoing glimpse of what Sherlock might look like should he shatter.

 

It was such an expression that the man could safely say he'd rather drown himself than ever see such a feature cross his partner's face ever again.

 

 

****

Three months in, John felt the egg move.

 

For a moment, he thought it just Sherlock leaning against them both, rambling about some case or another Lestrade's given him (a cold case, easily solved from home. Sherlock refused to leave without his egg and there would be no way to explain such a thing to the Yarders) when there was a nudging against his arm, where he was idly holding their egg in his lap. For a moment he froze, looking down in surprise, and Sherlock's deduction cut off mid-rant immediately as he noticed the change in his partner. Instantly the Dragon was down on the floor in front of the couch John was sitting on, eyes wild and frantic as he demanded

“What is it? What's wrong?!”

 

By way of answer John pressed a finger to his lips, gently reaching out to take Sherlock's hand, pressing it to where he had felt the nudging. A second later, both of them felt it, the slight shifting of tiny limbs stretching inside an encased shell. The Dragon's eyes were wide in fascination, and for a moment he looked stunned, more shell-shocked by this than any case or problem he had been presented with before.

 

John relished the expression for a moment, knowing a similar glow filled him. His hands skimmed the surface of the egg tenderly, and his voice was rough and warm.

“Bet you they're dreaming. Babies often kick when they're sleeping... and from what I can tell anyway about his anatomy they're around that point in development.” Not that John had been able to really tell much- A Dragon's rate of growth was much different than a Human's. Sherlock didn't say a word for a full second, still blinking and splaying his hand against the egg, expression so lost and overwhelmed. A moment later his throat clicked dryly, and very quietly he stated

 

“She.”

 

Looking to John, the Dragon's eyes were gold as he rumbled, almost shyly offering the tidbit of knowledge to his Mate. It was a huge show of trust, as Sherlock up until this point had been very recalcitrant on the ways of Dragon's and his past.

“You can tell by the colouring... female eggs always have bright colours.”

 

Then even more quietly

“We're having a little girl, John.”

 

Sherlock watched as John's expressive face lit like a small sun was underneath it. The man's voice was choked but positively melted. It was all so horrendously sentimental, and yet the Dragon found he didn't mind. Couldn't mind. Not when his Mate looked so happy, their egg placed between his knees like it belonged there. Like it was _home._

 

“Sherlock...” The Dragon closed his eyes as John leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his inky curls. The touch was like fire. Brilliant. Scalding.

Perfect.

 

“She'll be beautiful.”

 

****

Sex was fantastic. 

Sex however when Sherlock was feeling  _Possessive_ and needy... well that was  _Incredible._

John wouldn't miss the compulsions afterwards. The need to check the integrity of the locks to the flat. The obsessive urge Sherlock had to  _clean_ and then  _make a mess,_ but the sex was definitely lovely. His husband paid even closer attention than he usually did, focusing in on John and only John until the poor man was writhing and begging, pinned under Sherlock's superior strength. Only when his partner was completely strung out, all but unintelligible, did Sherlock allow John to let go. 

 

Yes, the sex was phenomenal.

But secretly, John liked the clingy, sticky cuddling afterwards so much more. The way Sherlock would purr, and tell him in hushed tones all he wanted to show their daughter, and all he loved about John. 

 

****

 

Five months in, John was up in his room typing.

 

Sherlock had fallen asleep, curled about their egg in front of the telly. He had been irritable for most of the day, flouncing about with their child on his hip, wings flaring defiantly even as he all but trudged, the extra weight of a Hatchling compromising some of his innate grace. The Dragon huffed boredly, driving John to utter distraction with his whining and pestering throughout the morning. Refusing to eat or sleep, Sherlock had finally made his husband so thoroughly infuriated that John had considered drugging the man's tea, if only to get him to stop complaining about how the rain was _hateful_ and the sun was _plebeian_ and the state of his jumper's were _dull._

 

 

In the end though, all the army doctor had to do was get the detective to just bloody _sit._ Three days without absolutely no sleep dragged down even the most forceful of Dragons, and soon Sherlock was splayed on the couch, his protests melting into soft snores as lethargy overtook him. His partner had breathed a quiet sigh of relief at the sight. It wasn't that he didn't love Sherlock, John did. Very much so. But sometimes, sometimes the detective needed to _stop. Shut down. Restart._

 

At least if John wanted to keep the integrity of his mind, not to mention his clothing (As Sherlock burned things with his breath when he was tetchy).

 

Finally sitting down nearly twenty minutes later, John opened his blog, setting about determinedly to get some writing done before his husband woke up. He was just about to type up the latest case (serial killer, nicknamed “the mandarin” for his calling card- a mandarin placed in the victim's palm) when the silence of the house was shattered.

Except it wasn't by Sherlock shouting.

Or his Dragon-husband whining on about some crap-telly show.

 

No.

 

It was broken by a dull _THUD_ that thundered downstairs _._

 

Followed by a heavier, heartier, _CRACK._

 

And a moment later, Sherlock's high-pitched, animalistic _Scream._

 

****

 

Their daughter had been moving inside the egg for a while now. Nearly months. Such wiggling had gotten so profound, so intense, that Sherlock was often having to watch the egg, ensure its safety lest it was propped in a high place.

 

Curled in his arms, the detective's exhaustion had won out, his limbs falling slack. The egg crooked in his elbow, the Dragon hadn't even stirred when his daughter began wiggling. Shaking. Shifting.

 

Slowly, inexorably, the egg had shifted further and further to the edge of the couch. Making its way to a steep drop to hard floor.

 

Sherlock had woken just in time to see it fall.

 

Hear the _sound._

 

And he had woken just in time to see the thin, hair-line fracture lining the outside of the shell. Absorb its meaning. See all the ways in which it could spell out the end to everything. His daughter.

His heart.

John.

_His child._

 

Then, Sherlock wasn't sure if he was awake, or if he was in some kind of dark, twisted nightmare.

 

****

The wailing was nearly inhuman.

 

Which made sense because the creature John came to find huddling over his daughter’s egg wasn't Human at all, Sherlock's form a mass of scales and teeth even as the beast roared its grief, clutching its egg to its chest.

 

The sound filled the flat, a horrible keening that had John tilting on his feet, clutching at his ears even as he moved forward, tears filling his eyes as he saw the completely broken expression on his partner's face. Sherlock was crouching over their child, hands more like claws as they cradled the egg like it was made of taffeta paper, eyes golden and wild and _wrong_ as they were slitted in agony. The army doctor saw the crack, his heart stopping as his eyes tracked its length, from one end of the egg to the middle of it. It tore through him, leaving his chest feeling as though it were wet and fragile like tissue held under water.

 

 

Without realising John sank to his knees, his mind failing to comprehend anything over the pounding in his skull, Sherlock's screaming, and his own sense of _NO._

 

****

“It may still hatch.”

 

Hollow. Dull. Not believing his own words. John didn't know when he had pressed himself to Sherlock's side, only that somehow, Mycroft was in the flat, had been let in as neither the doctor nor the detective could find the strength to move. Speaking. His words came to him as if from underwater. Beside John Sherlock shifted minutely, a croaky noise emitting from his throat.

They were both on the floor. Hadn't moved. John's throat felt raw. Terrible as if he had been screaming.

 

Perhaps at some point he had.

 

The elder Holmes crouched before them, uncharacteristically sad-looking even as he ran a hand through his younger brother's curls. Sherlock only reacted by curling further into himself, his egg still pressed to his chest.

Unwilling to believe the slim hope.

Unwilling to let go.

 

_It still might hatch._

 

“Brother, you mustn’t blame yourself either way. Come now; petite frère, you are frightening John.”

 

John didn't feel particularly frightened. No, he felt numb. He wasn't sure he'd be afraid even if he _could_ feel. Instead he thought he might feel pained. No, _tortured._

 

Sherlock did not move.

 

Neither did John.

 

 

****

They stayed like that, side by side.

Until one day passed, and then another.

 

The egg lay between them, shattered much like how they felt, neither one of them willing to move from the living-room floor.

 

At some point Mrs Hudson came up (she knew everything already) and draped them both in blankets.

 

At some point it became dark.

 

And in the quiet of night, Sherlock shifted, did what his instinct wanted him to do, and made a nest out of the sheets, pulling John so that he was lying on the other side of the egg. His Mate. His child.

 

John thought that his husband had never quite looked so lost. Or so feral.

 

****

 

At some point, it occurred to John that Sherlock was not okay.

He wasn't okay either, but his partner...

 

was silent.

Still.

 

Sherlock did not sleep.

He did not eat when Mrs Hudson brought up meals.

He did not play the violin.

He did not shower (neither did John, for that matter).

 

He merely looked at the egg, refused to let it go. Refused to get up. He stared at the egg, and sometimes John... but mostly, he stared as if his thoughts were far away.

 

And in his hands, the once lively shell was cold. Still.

 

For the first time in months, John caught himself thinking.

 

_It looks just like a rock._

 

****

Warmth.

Sherlock dreamed he could feel warmth, pressed against his chest. Comfort.

 

_Safety._

 

He dreamed it, because surely, it couldn't be real.

 

****

 

Four days later, a new crack on the egg appeared. At first, neither Sherlock or John saw it. Sherlock saw nothing any more, lost in his Mind-Palace. John didn't see it, too worried and grieving over not only the loss of his daughter, but his husband. It was tiny, so small.

 

An hour later, John cleared his throat, mumbled into the quiet of the flat.

 

“I was going to ask... Elena... I would've... it means sunlight...”

 

Softly, Sherlock responded. His voice was harsh and brittle. Still so gentle, despite the pain lancing through it.

 

“Go to sleep, John.”

 

Lying on the floor, John wordlessly obeyed.

 

****

_CRACK._

_CRACK._

_CRACK-CRACK._

 

_**CRACK.** _

John dreamed things were shattering. Breaking to pieces. In his mind, the darkness itself seemed to break apart, splinter and crumble. He moaned, twisting on the couch, but a weight was pressing him down. Something heavy, but not crushing. Holding him in place. He whimpered in his sleep, trying to twist away, unable to do so. Something was tapping his face. Pressing against it.

 

Warmth.

Strangely comforting.

 

For a moment, the cracking stopped. The breaking.

John woke to unfamiliar fingers, sticky and wet slapping his cheeks. His eyes parted muzzily in confusion, blinking blearily as he found himself staring into a pair of bright blue eyes. A mop of riotous blonde curls tumbled around a cherubic face, tiny, chubby hands pulling on John's ears. John gasped as he came awake, seeing the toddler on his chest and realising it was no illusion. For growing from her back, sticky from mucous that had encased her inside the egg, twin wings the rosy colour of purpling clouds at sunset flapped experimentally.

 

 

Elena Watson-Holmes looked at John as if he were exceedingly stupid.

 

Then, pearly little teeth bared, without mercy she bit down on his shoulder.

 

His _bad_ one.

 

His yelp of pain, quickly turning into sobbing tears of relief/joy/ _what_ woke Sherlock from his stupor. When the Dragon blearily got to his feet, he froze to hear a high and plaintive voice, a child reaching out for him, giggling and growling in perfect Dragon-like rumbles.

 

_Mama!_

 

Her laughter sounded like light.


	2. Terrible Twos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> taking a break from writing my novel and wound up back on AO3, go figure :P. thought I'd write up a quick oneshot ^.^ hope you all enjoy! this is pretty much mindless fluff... and Molly! :D

 

Rearing a Hatchling, John soon discovered, was rather rife with stress and chaos.

Not that he didn't bloody _love_ it, as a whole, but certain... moments he privately thought to himself could be better left forgotten in the back of his mind.

 

Particularly, the “terrible twos”. For anyone who has ever babysat before, they are aware that when a baby is on the cusp of being a toddler, they are also at the edge of causing more trouble than they likely ever will again throughout their life. For a Dragon, John discovered to his dismay, this fact doubled in accuracy.

 

First, there was the _teething._

 

Elena Rosalie Watson-Holmes was in every way in terms of appearance, her father's daughter. Bright blonde hair, tumbling down her back in loose waves that distinctly reminded John of Harry's younger years, and eyes that were cobalt blue, prone to being expressive and open. However in temperament, she was very much Sherlock's child. Precocious, sulky, and prone to mood swings at the tip of a hat. She worshipped the ground her mother walked on for the first few months of her life, following the darkly-curled detective about the flat like a yellow duckling first at a crawl, then at a stumbling walk. This at first had been a rather cute sight for John, and he'd spend many an hour giggling slightly at Elena's attachment, at how she'd tug insistently on the tails of Sherlock's blue robe or throw one of her plush building blocks at the Dragon's head if she felt neglected. Not that this happened very often, unless there was an incredibly interesting case going on (At least a nine). John watched on for the first year, amazed but not the least bit surprised, as he saw Sherlock be the equivalent of a mother hen towards their child.

 

Hatchling crying? Sherlock would be there, instantly cradling Elena to his chest, rumbling words in a tongue that John couldn't quite make out but seemed to calm the squalling infant. Hungry? John cringed the first time he saw Sherlock feed their baby raw meat, unable to quite connect the fact that his daughter wasn't quite human, despite the fact that her wings fluttered in contentment as she sucked raw salmon from her mother's fingers. Sherlock seemed deeply in tune with his child's needs, so much so that often he could predict an upset before they actually blew up into tantrums. Being a doctor, John had assumed that if a day had ever come where he would have children, he would have been the more experienced parent, yet Sherlock seemed to consistently put him to shame with his caretaker instincts.

 

It might have made John just a little bit jealous, if Elena hadn't decided to show her affection for her other parental figure in a completely different way.

Biting.

Dragons from a young age had a distinct need to Claim things, to mark them as their own. Sherlock explained this to John the first time Elena sank her newly formed (and wickedly sharp) teeth into the leg of John's chair.

“Since she doesn't have control over her Magic yet, John, she can't Mark things with her presence, so she's doing so in a much baser way- by teething.”

 

The way Sherlock calmly explained it made sense to John, in theory at least. Yet theory work couldn't erase the pain of a very sharp set of teeth latching themselves onto his shoulder, the soft lullabies he had been crooning to Elena to try and get her to sleep (for she was a somewhat nocturnal baby) turning into a sharp yelp of pain. Immediately, Sherlock had scrambled up from his position of lying prone on the sofa, clamouring up the stairs for fear that his Mate has somehow been grievously injured. What he found instead, much to his struggle to conceal his laughter, was a rather pained John, trying in vain to pry his daughter's vice-like bite from his skin.

 

It turned less amusing when John all but snarled at Sherlock to _“Fix this!”,_ for the Dragon found much to his surprise (although given his own nature he probably shouldn't have been) that his daughter was rather possessive about her claims. Elena was making contented little growling noises, which turned into a rather fearsome little snarl as her Mother's hands came to wrap about her middle. As Sherlock tried to pry her teeth free from John's neck the baby squalled and kicked, purplish wings flaring wide, obstructing the detective's view (much to his irritation). Sherlock's voice was deep, rumbling and chastising, and he spoke to his daughter as if she were being exceedingly unreasonable.

 

“Come now, no need to be so rude. Papa's in pain right now, we don't want to hurt what is ours, do we?”

 

The child released her bite only to snarl something in the strange, rumbling language she and Sherlock sometimes shared, her hands curling about John possessively in an action that might have been sweet, if the good doctor wasn't swimming in pain. Sherlock rolled his eyes at whatever she said, trying to reason with a stroppy infant as best as he could. From Elena's slitted expression, he might very well have been failing.

 

“Yes, yes. I _know_ he's yours. He's Mine, too. And we share with no one. But he's surprisingly fragile, at least physically.” John wasn't sure if he should be insulted at the quip to his strength, or impressed that his daughter seemed to understand Sherlock on some level.

 

He was leaning towards insulted, but that might have been due to the fact that there was blood on his new jumper.

 

Elena hunched slightly closer to her father, this time muttering something that sounded decidedly sulky under her breath. Sherlock sighed, and the sound was deep and so low that it vibrated just under John's skin. The man's blue eyes were rounded and soft.

“You need to say that to him, little one.” And he growled then, letting words flow from his lips that sounded like hissing but fell together like a lullaby.

 

John looked at Elena, who stared back at him unblinkingly. Her head was tilted almost thoughtfully to one side, her lips pursed, thinking. In that moment, she was Sherlock, through and through. Yet she melted into something _John-like_ in the instant that she opened her mouth, and imperiously tapping on John's chest, stated.

“Papa. Papa Mine.”

 

and as if in apology for her earlier harsh mauling, bit John's arm. Only... _softly._

 

_*****_

The second horror that the Watson-Holmes family would face would be Elena's learning of English. Simply due to the fact that for the first year and a half, she couldn't seem to be bothered.

 

She spoke mostly in growls and snarls, got her way by purring like a cat or whimpering in such a way that John's heart strings would tug painfully in his chest. She ruled the flat like a tiny queen, wings growing day by day, flaring outwards with interest or curling about her when she was in a strop like a protective shield. This body language was relatively easy for John to read, and with Sherlock by his side, he had no issues communicating with his daughter (in fact, Elena had grown into a fascination with medical terminology, and quite often tailed John with a big picture book in her hands of human anatomy, asking questions by pointing and chirping exectantly). The issue, was when John became rather painfully aware that his child was rather deprived of socialisation with children her own age, and found the need to bring it up to Sherlock one night while they lay cuddling under the covers of their bed.

 

John's husband looked at him when he brought up the idea that Elena might need more human contact as if he had stated something both hideous and upsetting beyond measure. Before he had been lax and content, doing his damnedest to imitate a giant housecat in the way he'd curled himself protectively over his Mate, purring in satisfaction at being warm and safe and loved. Now however, he was a tense ball of uncertainty, and he looked at John with a mixture of distress and disbelief as he exclaimed

“What? That's preposterous! Elena doesn't need... _other_ children!”

 

The Dragon-man then proceeded to try and curl John closer against the warmth of his bare chest, attempting to cut off the conversation, but the ex-army doctor wasn't having it. Putting a restraining hand on Sherlock's stomach, John remained firm. His gaze was determined as he looked up at the man.

“Sherlock, she's going to have to learn to socialise at _some_ point, won't she? What about school? She'll have no idea how to behave if we just throw her to the dogs like that first day of kindergarten, no preparation beforehand.”

 

“Don't be dull.” Sherlock growled, brows furrowed in confusion, as if he couldn't understand why the subject was so important to John. “We wouldn't do that. _I'd_ be a decent enough teacher, and she could learn anything I've deleted from _you._ It's perfect. Simple. _Safe._ ” And he tacked on the last bit at the end, all but muttering it as he nosed John's hairline with a protective nuzzle. The feeling of it was nice, sweet, and John would have normally used it as an excuse to plant a kiss to his husband's elegant collarbone, but now he refused to be distracted, struggling free from his Mate's embrace as he admonished him sternly

 

“ _Sherlock_ , what are you afraid of? Who might come after our daughter?” The thought of anyone, any enemy or unseen force taking their child away sent a fiercely enraged pang of protectiveness through John, and Sherlock could smell it, coppery and warm. Still the Dragon seemed to hesitate, expression flattening into reticence, avoiding his husband's gaze. After a minute of silence, John tried again, more insistently.

“Sherlock Holmes, _out with it._ ”

 

The Dragon's rumble was spat between them. “ _Everyone._ Every human being on this planet, everyone who might hurt her or take her or think she's some kind of _Freak._ ” The sharp, rolling click on the “K” caused John to flinch minutely, but Sherlock barely noticed. His gaze was slitted in hatred. Fear rarely seen. “Our kind were hunted... _driven_ to near extinction, and we _hide_ now among you. I watched...” And his voice trailed off, cracked to John's dull horror and pain “I watched... children tease other children, their own _Kind,_ John. And I... I hated them... They had at least a _reason_ to tease me... but their own _species..._ ” The last part, mumbled into John's neck, was thick with heavy emotion. John, feeling a quiet rage build in him, rolled over to clutch Sherlock to him, allowing the man's black and red-streaked wings to spread, curl about them protectively. In the darkness, Sherlock trembled, warm but afraid against John. So very afraid. The doctor wondered, who could have hurt someone, been so _cruel,_ as to scar a living being for life?

 

But John had been in Afghanistan, and he knew the answer to his own question. He _was_ the answer, really. People like him. Strong overpower the weak, and though Sherlock was by no means frail _now,_ John could picture him as a child. Too small (he had been an early Hatchling), wings too big to hide easily, eyes too big and knowing and mind too full of information to contain. John's voice was filled with a soldierly kind of stoicism.

“We won't _let_ anyone hurt her.”

 

Then, because Sherlock didn't seem to assured, trembling like a fallen leaf. John added

“Watson promise, love. You know my family, we keep our vows.” And John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple, hands trying to stroke away the man's past by working their way soothingly down the ridges of his spine.

 

****

“ _Itchy.”_ Elena informed John gravely as he plopped the baby-blue woollen hat on her head, concealing the freshly-growing horns just beginning to peek out from her riot of curls. The soldier nodded with all the gravity of a man about to go to war at his daughter, struggling to contain his amusement.

 

“I know, but it's cold out there, love. And you don't have Magic yet to make you look like Daddy or I.”

 

The Dragonling huffed, and with the noise a faint puff of smoke left her lips. She smiled in delight at John's obvious surprise at the act, grin curling mischievously. “Mrs Hudson will go spare if you set fire to anything.” She laughed at her Papa's gallows-expression, and responded by blowing a puff of smoke that was shaped impressively like a bunny rabbit. John had been sure to buy his daughter's winter coat several sizes too big, allowing for the child to tuck her wings tightly to her spine, hiding the bump just effectively enough that it was lost in the puffy padding. Buttoning it up to the chin, Elena wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Hot.”

 

Sherlock stepped into the hall just in time to hear her complaint. Slipping on his leather gloves, his tone was suitably bored for their endeavour at hand.

“Yes, but sadly we must humour your Papa, at least for today.” And he knelt, sweeping his daughter up so she shrieked with amazement and delight before resting her like a football against his hip. One impossibly long finger came to chuff her lightly under the chin as the detective looked to John with an unreadable expression. “We musn't keep Molly and her son Xavier waiting.”

Outside, the world had turned white in a rare, large snowfall, much to Elena's apparent wonder. They walked to the park, and every few feet she'd stop, stilling long enough to fling herself into the snow with a giggle and a mighty shout, rolling in the cold, white crystals until she was completely soaked. John watched on in nostalgic happiness, remembering many a Christmas waking up to do the exact same thing with his older sister minding him. Sherlock looked on at his daughter behaviour with a mixed expression, wanting to be pleased, uncertain of what events would lie ahead.

 

“Papa! _Snow!_ ” Elena exclaimed seriously, perching herself up atop a snow bank with the lurking qualities of a gargoyle. John snorted in laughter, unable to help himself as she wobbled, losing her footing to slide to the bottom of the hill with an

 

“ _Oof.”_

 

“It's fun, isn't it love?” And her verbal agreement sent a pang of small relief through John, glad she was using more and more words.

 

Sherlock, for his part, looked vaguely distressed.

 

****

Molly had married a sweet man named Paul a few years back, and Xavier was four, an age that seemed worlds more mature in Elena's eyes than her own. As a result, she was at first hesitant to play with the slightly older boy, feet shuffling in uncharacteristic shyness as she hid behind Aunt Molly's leg, more used to her presence (due to visits in the morgue) than that of her child's. Xavier, for his part, seemed much like Molly herself- uncertain, timid, and prone to crying jags.

 

Sherlock tried not to think _weak_ upon glancing at him.

 

Still, the boy had also attained Molly's apparent sweetness, for when he saw Elena's hesitance to touch anything at the park (New _smells_ and new _sounds_ and _data, data, data-_ ) he lost some of his hesitance. With a shy hand, he came to tug on the girl's sleeve, green eyes blinking as he asked “D'you... wanna play Monsters?”

 

Tilting her head to the side, the curly haired girl asked with the seriousness of a man asking the secrets to the pentagon “How does one play?”

 

****

“ _ROAR!”_

 

The little girl crowed, standing on top of the playground, baring her teeth in a grin that was surprisingly savage for one so small. Her voice was clear, far clearer than any two and a half year old's should have been. “I AM THE GREAT AND POWERFUL DRAGON! FOOLISH HUMANS!”

 

Xavier played his part to the best of his ability, speaking out in a voice slightly more subdued but no less bellowing across the park “An' I'm her sidekick! The dread Pirate Black-beard!”

 

Sitting on the park bench, John held Sherlock's hand in his own. The Dragon's face though petulant, was filled with a warmth well hidden by exasperation.

“Oh come _on,_ Dragons haven't ruled over Humans in at _least_ a few centuries, John. _John!_ ” Sherlock looked on in distaste as his husband bent over, laughing into his hands. Beside him, Molly smiled, her voice high and chirpy.

 

“Well, at least Xavier's getting some exercise.”

 

This was followed by a statement called over the playground that made all of the adults freeze in terror.

 

“Bet I can fly!”

 

Xavier's voice, high and teasing. “Bet you _can't._ ”

 

“Oh yeah? _Watch me.”_

 

Sherlock was running towards the playground faster than John was on his feet.

 

****

John drifted out of a rather exhausted sleep by the slight tugging on his arm. It had been dangling over the side of his bed, as Sherlock had decided to shag him rather roughly, curling about him as if he were his own personal space heater ( _git_ ) before falling asleep. Not that John hadn't enjoyed it... but it left his senses somewhat scrambled as he struggled to wake.

The hand was patient, tapping his until blinking blearily, the army doctor looked down.

 

Elena sat, her tail out of where it was customarily tucked into her pyjamas, the limb twitching as she tried to catch it with one hand. In the other, she had a large picture book trapped to her chest, and she paused in her tail-game to look at John as he woke, and uncharacteristically nervous expression darting across her features. Keeping his voice quiet lest Sherlock wake, John propped himself on his elbows, voice tired but gentle and friendly.

 

“Everything alright, sweetheart?”

 

Big blue eyes looked at him, then away, and Elena's hands gripped the book on either side, as if she were debating whether or not to hide it away. She bit her lip gently, and in a very small voice, asked.

“Papa, read?”

 

“It's very late.” John sighed, but he was already sitting up, wriggling out of Sherlock's hold (the Dragon-man mumbled something unintelligible but vaguely tetchy in response to such movement). Elena fidgeted in place, staring at the book as if it contained her reasons for entering their room in the first place. John sat himself down on the cold hardwood, gathering his daughter into his arms. For the first time, he saw the tome in her hand.

 

“Where did you get _Where the Wild Things Are?_ ” He asked in some surprise, and his daughter looked at him, a spark of possessiveness in her gaze.

“ _Mine.”_ She stated instinctively, then seemed to pause, collect herself, and with visible effort amended “For now, at least. Xavier's. He... loaned it to me. Said I was a good reader. That he can't read yet.” Her nose crinkled in confusion, and she looked up at John with perplexion.

 

“I can't read neither. He just thought cause I talk good.”

 

John smiled then, pieces coming together.

“Would you like me to read to you?” His daughter nodded enthusiastically, squirming in his lap as she held the book up to him. Her eyes were bright with want.

 

“ _Please,_ Papa.”

 

So John, glancing once more upwards to ensure his husband slept, hugged Elena close to him, opening the book to the page Elena was insistently tapping to. It had a picture of a little boy, his eyes filled and lonely.

 

“ _And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all...”_

 

Quietly, Sherlock let his blue-glinting eyes slip closed, soothed by the sound of his Mate and Hatchling, all but breathing as one.

 

Terrible twos.

But lovely memories all the same, and the Dragon would collect them like treasures of immeasurable worth.

 


	3. Kidnapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a little while ago and might write an aftermath scene later on ^.^ I wanted to play with the idea of Moriarty being something mythical and inhuman and, well, this was the result. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy~ please let me know what you think. 
> 
> Note: Elena is about ten, though Dragon-years are hard to quantify as in this verse, they stop ageing once full-grown.

 

 

Elena chased after Xavier in the school courtyard, her blonde curls tugging in the wind as she raced across the pavement, breathless with delight. The tap of her feet thundered in her ears, and she whooped and imagined to herself what it’d be like to soar, to fly above the boy just ahead of her and coast up into the clouds. 

She wouldn’t of course. She knew the rules. 

_ No flying at school.  _

 

Still, she could imagine. 

Xavier, ten years of age and beginning to wheeze, was already regretting letting Elena be “it” for tag. He could never seem to outrun her, her compact frame surprisingly quick despite her smaller stature and her competitive streak making her determined. It was in desperation that he found himself diving around the sharp corner of the school’s brickwork, pulling into the niche between wall and schoolyard just in time. His friend, unaware of the hiding place zoomed past, baby-blue jacket unzipped and blowing in the wind with the force of her run. She was so intent on the chase that it took her a moment to realise she had been duped, and when she did, Xavier was already running in the opposite direction. He laughed, the sound loud and carrying far behind him. If anyone had known him only a few years before, they wouldn’t have been able to compare the shy, quiet child with the young boy. 

 

Elena roared in mock-fury, the pom-pom of her hat bouncing atop her curls hiding her ever-growing horns as once more, she gave chase. 

 

****

“Moriarty is a spider, and his web is vast and intricate.” 

 

When John had first heard his husband describe the consulting criminal that had recently come into their lives, he had thought the detective was merely using metaphors, explaining a wider concept to a dull audience of judges. 

Later, he would be corrected, the dark of the night causing Sherlock’s eyes to glow like fox-fire. His prone form wouldn’t move, but John would notice how his wings trembled minutely, sprung from his back as he lay curled up facing the back of their couch in thought. 

“Dragons are not the only monsters alive and well from myths, John. What’s more, we are by far not the deadliest to your kind.”

 

His cryptic words unsettled John, but he recognised when his mate was too deeply in thought to explain his deductions. Doing only what he knew how to protect his family, he began bringing his gun, concealing it in the waistband of his jeans. If Sherlock noticed, he didn’t object. 

Neither of them were interested in anything Moriarty had to offer, even with the man’s obvious brilliance. Perhaps in another time, another world, Sherlock might have been grudgingly respectful, even curious. The potential for that dissipated after the pip with the child, in which it seemed to click for the Dragon a fact that he had before ignored:

It wasn’t just him he was putting up for the line of fire if he, or even his brother played.

Truthfully, it hadn’t been since John came into his life. 

 

Still, he had no choice  _ but  _ to play, as Moriarty would not be ignored. Providing deliciously complex cases that once would have made the detective’s week, the consulting criminal was an enigma, a man offering Sherlock the world on fire, if only he would come and play. It repulsed something in the Dragon and interested him in turns, and he rocked between the thin line between clinical efficiency and a hungry desperation to bring the man to jail before the stakes were once again raised. This was a man that was willing to blow up an entire block of flats in order to draw the Dragon’s attention, a hidden part of Sherlock’s emotions dreaded, because he knew that if one only looked, it no longer took a genius to figure out just where the detective’s weak points lay. 

 

At the moment, they were curled up physically beside him, his daughter whom he had almost lost falling asleep preemptively during reading time, and his precious mate wrapped about her. In the dark Sherlock stared at them both, an uncomfortable fluttering tightening in his chest. His wings were twin dark shrouds, red-black and hiding them as if to protect them from an oncoming storm. 

He drew the blankets more firmly around each of their sleeping, still forms, his mouth a tight line. Moriarty hadn’t acted out in nearly a month. There was something brewing, and he couldn’t predict what it would be. 

 

Sherlock wouldn’t sleep that night, his tail twitching in restless agitation, something inhuman in his slitted gaze as he stared out the small window in his bedroom, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

 

****

“How come daddy doesn’t know you’re in town if you’re visiting him?” 

Elena peered up suspiciously at the smiling man that held her hand and all but dragged her along the sidewalk. She hadn’t met Mr Jim before, but he looked like someone her parents would know. Her daddy (Mommy, but Sherlock told her to use Daddy at school so as to not confuse the other kids) always wore suits, and the man that lead her along had on a fancy suit and had his nice, dark hair all slicked back. He also knew about her secret, and daddy had always said only people he knew and trusted were aware that they were Dragons. 

Mr Jim let her walk without her hat, and Elena thought that was rather ace. His smile though, it was a bit off. She wasn’t sure she liked it, though she knew it would be rude to say so. 

 

He smiled at her when he replied, Irish lilt rolling easily. 

“I’m surprising him, the trip to London was rather sudden. Thought I’d pop by with you, talk about things. Catch. Up.”

Elena wrinkled her nose doubtfully, and she looked up at the man with deep, serious blue eyes. 

“Daddy’s away a lot. You might not see him, he does important things and keeps bad people locked up. He flies about and papa scolds him for being a “word-I’m-not-allowed-to-say.” Her papa’s words, echoing in her mind and explaining her dad’s job repeated on her tongue. Mr Jim’s eyes were very dark, and they didn’t seem to reflect much light at all. They flattened further when he tilted his head, and Elena felt something in her lose some of its calm as he stared down at her. Jim didn’t seem angry, but there was still something in the back of her mind that suddenly seemed to scream  _ danger.  _

 

She watched as Mr Jim seemed to only smile wider at her claim, and she flinched just a little as his hand tightened about hers. 

“Oh, I think he’ll make time for me. Don’t. You.  _ Worry.” _

It was then that Elena felt herself being hauled up into the man’s arms, and they rounded a corner to see a black car idling upon the kerb. 

Elena opened her mouth to scream, but before she could, something sweet and cloying and noxious was pressed against her mouth in a soaked rag. 

She was unconscious before she could even fight. 

 

****

D.I Lestrade would normally be fearing for the structural integrity of his desk, if the person abusing it was anyone other than Sherlock Holmes.

As it was, he was uncomfortably beginning to fear for his  _ life  _ as the detective loomed over him, eyes slitted and voice a thunderous growl. The timbre of it made the hair on the back of the man’s neck stand on end. 

_ “Missing?!”  _

 

The man who typically loathed repetition hissed a mimicry of Lestrade’s previous words, his tone impossibly dangerous. Greg swallowed, dark eyes flicking nervously towards his office door, which had been closed for safety’s sake. Sherlock could barely control his emotions right now, let alone the _ Glamour _ that normally held his form together. He seemed to flicker on the spot, one blink a normal man and the next a lumbering, smoking reptile that could barely be contained in such a small cubicle. It would not do to have someone glance inside and see a furious, fire-breathing Dragon.

 

Greg carefully held up his hands, trying to peer past Sherlock at John, who seemed to have gone unresponsive with the news. The man was as pale as a sheet, and he swayed in place as if an errant breeze might cause him to collapse. John’s eyes were very blue, and very wide as they gazed blankly ahead, seeing nothing and so not reacting to Sherlock’s seething rage. 

“The teachers reported her leaving with a relative of some kind, said she showed no outward signs of distress. The man’s description matches Moriarty’s profile. We can track them as far as Pinner road where an unmarked car picks them up and they vanish off the grid.”

 

His words were cautious, an attempt to soothe, but Sherlock was not appeased. How could he be, when a man who held to qualms about murder, about  _ torture  _ had his  _ daughter?  _ A wordless roar burst from his lips, and the fact that it sounded more animal than human was what seemed to finally snap John out of his daze. Greg flinched, expecting the Dragon to come to blows, but the ex-army doctor was suddenly there, bodily gripping Sherlock’s shoulders, holding him back. John’s voice cut like steel through the red haze of Sherlock’s outrage, and his voice was deceptively calm. Like ice, sharpened at the bottom of a pit and just waiting for someone to fall. 

“This isn’t helping find her.” 

 

Sherlock looked like he wanted to snap something back to the man, but that a greater part of him knew that his husband was right. The Dragon hovered indecisively, willing to claw through brick wall itself to regain his child, but knowing that his mate in that moment was more coldly, almost  _ cruelly  _ rational one. 

Oh, that and wasn’t  _ that  _ a twist. 

 

John was all iron as he turned to Lestrade, bracing his arms against the desk and murmuring orders in clipped, soldierly tones. 

“Sherlock and I will call Mycroft. I want your men and women scouring the area she was taken from,  _ and I want you to hunt the fucker who took our daughter down like the dog he is.  _ Am I clear?”

His tone harboured no opportunity for argument, and even less for failure. Greg had never seen his friend look so completely determined, and though John was a small man in stature, he felt a chill in his blood at just what he might do should he ever have the chance to face Moriarty one on one. 

The madman would deserve it, but only just. Something told Lestrade that if left to his own choices, John would happily go to jail with a smile on his face, even if his hands were soaked in another person’s blood. If it meant that Sherlock and his daughter were safe from harm, that was. 

 

****

Her mouth tasted like sand. 

It was the first thing Elena registered, her mind fuzzy and unfocused in a way that only chemical sleep could produce. Her head hurt with it, and slowly she blinked back the ache behind her eyelids, woozily willing the world to make sense. 

 

Where was she? She wasn’t sure, though her memories seemed to think she had at one point been playing tag with Xavier. Was he with her? Looking around, Elena had to conclude that she couldn’t see him. Not that there was much to see to begin with, as the room she was in was very dark and cold. It looked like some kind of freezer, actually, and when she struggled to sit up, Elena’s slitted pupils widened, trying to take in as much light as possible. 

Her hat had gone missing. It was her first observation, and though not particularly helpful, it sent vague distress through her. 

 

Her hands were tied behind her back with something hard, plastic. It cut into her wrists as she rubbed against it, and a small sound of hurt left her lips in surprise. The Dragonling looked wildly about feeling her heart kick in her chest as she began to truly understand that she was alone, and that her parents were nowhere in sight. 

It was without thinking that her wings began to unfurl from her back, and she attempted to stand, only to discover that her ankles had been bound as well. 

 

A sound echoed throughout the frozen room then, and Elena’s chin snapped up, eyes wide with fear and her heart pounding as she watched the door that lead to outside wherever she was open. It was a yawning maw, spreading white light that made her squint to see the silhouette that stood before her. 

A voice spoke, Irish brogue familiar, but now edged with a malice that before had been hidden away. 

 

“Evening,”

Mr Jim stepped out of the light and into the shadow, and Elena saw that the man that had taken her out of school had changed into something sinister. Those eyes, once merely dark brown were now black and pupiless, the whites of them missing as the man before her blinked in a slow, considering way. He seemed to notice her shivering, and a smile inched up his face that revealed teeth entirely too sharp to be human. Elena gasped, curling in on herself instinctively. Mr Jim Laughed at her reaction in delight. “Yes, I’m afraid I’m a little less put together, darling; then I was earlier. You  _ must  _ forgive me, I had to have a little  _ snack  _ before we could get to the matter at hand.”

He licked his lips conspiratorily, and Elena swallowed. She and Daddy had snacks, but they didn’t usually bleed, like the red around the man’s mouth seemed to imply. Daddy said it was wrong, to hunt. He also told her that if someone took her somewhere she didn’t want to go, she was to scream for help. The thought only occurred to her now, and glancing wildly about, the Dragonling wondered if anyone might hear her. 

 

She parted her lips to do so, but barely a puff of air had escaped her before she found her mouth covered with a hand with inhuman speed, her body lifted into the air as if she weighed nothing more than a bag of sugar. Elena shrieked against the palm pressed against her lips, her body shoved against the brick wall of the chamber hard enough that her wings felt bruised. They twitched, and through the haze of her panic Elena looked at the bad man in front of her and began to sob, because what was holding her in place  _ was no longer a man.  _

“I wouldn’t scream if I were you.” Moriarty snarled, a horrible clicking noise interspersed with his words. Soulless black eyes peered up at her, filled with mania. “It only makes the hunt more exciting for  _ me,  _ and I’m supposed to be using you as  _ bait.” _

 

****

_ “Tsuchigumo.” _

 

John looked up from where he had been sitting with his head in his hands, startling at his Mate’s voice after hours of silence within the Yard. So far the car that their daughter had been lifted into had turned out to be unmarked, and had taken a number of clever routes to ensure that it would be lost by CCTV. 

It was maddening, how many steps ahead Moriarty seemed to be. Sucking in a breath through his teeth, John sat up. He stared at his Mate, who had taken to pacing the length of Lestrade’s office, wearing a hole in the floor with the frantic nature of his movements. 

 

“Sorry?” 

The Dragon, comforted by the safety and relative solitude of Lestrade’s office had let his wings show, and now they flapped restlessly as slitted eyes peered up from under the fringe of Sherlock’s dark curls. The detective had a vaguely hunted expression on his face, and when he looked at John he paused in his pacing, long hands clenched at his sides. Carefully, Sherlock drew a deep breath.

“Have you ever heard of a  _ Tsuchigumo,  _ John?”

“Can’t say that I have. It sounds Japanese.” John blinked slowly, peering at his Mate. Up close, Sherlock’s pale eyes spat gold sparks with his power, slit pupils darting restlessly about. 

 

Lestrade had been sitting at his desk, waiting on Mycroft to phone again for further course of action. It felt like a futile position, truthfully, and so he perked up at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. He had thought the Dragon to be lost in his own Sherlockian-maddened fear for his child.

“It’s a Japanese myth, at least to most humans, it’s considered to be a myth.” Sherlock murmured quietly, something humourless and dark in his eyes. “To be fair, most consider  _ my  _ kind a myth, until they see one of us face to face.” 

“It’s some kind of creature, then?” John asked.

“A  _ yokai,  _ to be exact: A Demon.” Sherlock corrected. “In the legends, they are monsters, creatures that are part-spider, part-man, and part tiger. In the old stories they eat travellers that wander into their mountains, but newer legends tell tales of them taking on more human forms, eating children and people in their beds.” 

 

A chill ran along John’s spine, and he swallowed as he looked at his Mate carefully. Sherlock appeared as if he were made of stone, perfectly serious and still. To an unpracticed eye he could have been mistaken for marble, a statue. The only thing that moved was the subtle tick of his lips, which were twisted in a snarl of of fear. 

“Sherlock… You’re telling me, you think…”

“I could  _ smell  _ it on him, John.” The Dragon rumbled, and his voice was an incantation of death. His head snapped towards John’s direction, and abruptly the Dragon stalked forward, crowding his Mate’s space. “He is old, and smells of death and hunger. I could  _ feel  _ his bloodlust, with that one glimpse-” Sherlock broke off then, and a wordless sound escaped him, pressed as he was to John’s shoulder. It was a sound of disgust, and John so rarely heard it from his Mate that he found his arms coming up instinctively, wrapping themselves about Sherlock’s shoulders. The Dragon’s bony frame shook as Sherlock whispered his deductions in John’s ear, filled with a sickening terror.

“He’s going to  _ eat  _ her, if we don’t find them. If a  _ Human  _ could feed him for a month, a  _ Dragon... _ he’s planning to eat her, so we won’t have to come out of hiding again for a long,  _ long  _ time. He’ll  _ eat  _ her, and then he’ll  _ vanish. _ ”

 

Sherlock’s black mood was palpable, and John had to control the frantic beating of his heart, then. The wall of panic threatened to engulf him, a tidal wave that came with his Mate’s certainty and his own fear. 

In the end Mycroft’s phone call only changed that wall of terror into a mountain, as Lestrade picked up his mobile, cupping to his ear to listen. The D.I’s eyes widened at whatever the elder Holmes was saying, and he locked his gaze with Sherlock’s as he hung up, a sick expression on his face as he cleared his throat carefully and delivered the news.

“It’s Moriarty, he’s resurfaced. Sherlock… He’s standing on the St Bart’s Hospital roof… He’s demanding your arrival, or he’ll… Elena’s with him.”

 

John had thought he had seen the worst of Sherlock, once when Elena had only been an egg. He had thought he never wanted to see the Dragon’s expression as it had been when their egg had been cracked and lifeless, sitting upon the living room floor. 

Now, Sherlock’s expression was at once the same and completely different, utterly reptilian and cruel. 

Worse, John could feel a similar expression settling on his own face, and found he very much didn’t mind it at all. He wondered if that made him inhuman too, and decided he’d rather not reflect too much upon the answer. 

 

****

The web was sticky, and stronger than Elena’s own inhuman strength. She was already weak from the drugs that Moriarty had been giving her, and now she could barely move, hoisted up over the spider’s back as if she was a package on its way for delivery. 

 

The little girl tried not to hyperventilate, despite the fact that the webbing around her mouth made breathing harder, and despite the fact that the skittering, clicking nature of the monster’s legs made her skin crawl. Moriarty stayed in the shadows, and he climbed walls with spidery ease. 

Elena still couldn’t fly very well, and the lurching heights made her gag with fear. She was too afraid to struggle, worried that if she fought too much the spider would think to drop her, too much the effort to hold. 

 

It’s dark, and she’s not sure where they’re going until she feels the exoskeletal body beneath her judder to a halt. Her slitted eyes opened wide, struggling to take in as much light as possible. Everything was tinged grey and hazed with the panting struggle of her heartbeat. Elena wasn’t usually afraid of heights, but as she was flung unceremoniously close to the edge of a rooftop, she found her stomach flipping inside out inside of her as she scrabbled for purchase as best she could while bound. 

 

Elena curled away from the spider crouched before her, tears streaming down her cheeks and hiccups spilling from her lips that couldn’t seem to be stopped. Jim screamed at her to shut up, but she still couldn’t seem to make herself quiet. Her breath came in sharp gasps, and the Dragonling trembled, looking up at the sky that rumbled slate-grey with the promise of thunder. 

“Isn’t this  _ nice?”  _ The spider hissed, mandibles clicking with a sound that made Elena’s hair stand on end at the back of her neck.  “We’re here and soon your daddies will be here and we’ll all have a nice little  _ chat  _ where I’ll  _ eat  _ your family up with a nice red wine.”

 

She whimpered, and the sound seemed to rouse the creature’s amusement because he laughed a terrible laugh and straightened, looking out as the sun sank and turned the sky to blood. Jim Moriarty seemed to inhale the smoggy air of London, blinking dreamily up towards the sky. His voice was delighted despite the terrifying way in which he lifted her into the air.

“I can’t  _ wait.  _ Simply, this will be the meeting of a  _ millennia.” _

 

****

It could be said that to cross a Dragon was to engage in a suicide mission. Certainly, Sherlock did not look like the type who would be merciful towards anyone who might harm him or those he loved. 

 

As it was he stood on the rooftop of st Bart’s, slit-eyed and still as he took in the sight of the monster that perched over his daughter, a rumbling growl working its way in his throat. 

Sherlock’s gaze swept over his Hatchling, taking in her scuffed appearance. She didn’t appear grievously injured, but the ruddy tracks from tears down her cheeks sent a lance of white-hot rage coursing through the Dragon, and he bared his teeth as he revealed inhumanly pointed enamel. When he spoke, his voice was a hiss, and the sound of it caused his daughter to stir somewhat in the sticky cocoon she was bound in, whimpering. 

 

“You took what is mine from me. First mistake, in garnering my attention. This is not the kind of focus you’re looking for.” 

 

Moriarty smiled widely, dark eyes gleaming even as below in the street police cars waited in tension. Sherlock had given Greg one look, and no one had dared to stop him. There was something unearthly about the detective’s appearance at the moment, and though no mortal would be able to place it, their hind-brain still whined out of fear of the unknown. Lestrade, knowing what Sherlock was, had only felt it more strongly. 

 

“How do you know this isn’t  _ exactly  _ what I wanted?” The spider purred in an Irish brogue, and the glamour the man held of a man in a suit rippled. One arachnid leg reached out, rolling Elena closer to the bulbous underside of his lower body. She whimpered, stifling a shriek, and Sherlock imagined what it would be like to rip all of those legs off, to burn the creature under a gigantic magnifying glass. 

 

Sherlock’s own human form began to shudder with his rage like a flickering candle, and glimpses of what lay underneath would have normally made most creatures cower. Moriarty by contrast merely ticked a small smile, dark eyes glittering. 

“I haven’t hunted your kind in a long time, you know.” The spider commented calmly, as if he were discussing merely the weather. “Part of me thought you’d all died out in the medieval age. Of course, I was still living far from London at the time, but one hears rumours along the grapevine.”

“Our kind is less dead than one might think.” Sherlock rumbled, reptilian head tilting with a murderous intent. 

Elena chanced a peek, and felt herself pale. Her father looked, well,  _ scary.  _ She had never seen him so completely cold before, and his voice was velvety with the kind of anger that only happened when she had done something very,  _ very  _ dangerous. 

_ “You,  _ on the other hand, are alone.” 

 

Moriarty merely laughed at the deduction, clearly pleased. 

“Right you are, of course Mr Holmes. However, I think I am alone by choice. After all, my kind… well we’re known for  _ eating _ our brothers and sisters, eating our  _ mother.  _ You Dragons and all that brooding instinct, all that bonding ritual...Sentimental, and weak. What’s one Dragon, after all? A coward? Certainly no match for me.”

 

Elena shivered, and her blue eyes peered up at her father’s impassive face. when he spoke, it was to Elena, though he did not tear away his gaze from Moriarty’s figure. His voice was endlessly gentle, even as he began to shimmer, breaking down into full form in broad daylight. Elena had never seen him do this before, and it made something in her chest squeeze and her breath come in hysterical, small gasps. 

“Sweetheart, I want you to close your eyes. Count to one hundred, can you do that for me?” 

She found herself unable to question the order, eyes slipping closed almost against her will. Elena felt rather than saw the spider above her drop into a low crouch, as if bracing for impact. 

She didn’t see whatever struck the monster, but to Elena’s surprise, it came from behind. Moriarty’s heavy frame was suddenly ripped from above her, tossed like a ragdoll across the roof. She heard a gurgling snarl, followed by a roar that seemed to fill her ears. It was cut off abruptly, a shriek of pain following that made her cower into the webbed cocoon she was bound in and whimper. Mentally, Elena dutifully counted down, though everything in her screamed to open her eyes, to  _ see. _

 

_ ninety-seven...ninety-six… _

 

A hiss, the sound of scuffling and something coming towards her, deadly-fast. Elena braced herself for impact, instead finding herself shoved unceremoniously to the side. A second later, there was the sound of pavement freezing as ice blasted over it, followed by her father’s outraged voice overlayed with a snarl. 

**_“Careful, Mycroft!”_ **

 

Her uncle. The Drakeling could have sobbed with relief. Uncle Mycroft was here. Everything was going to be  _ ok,  _ because her uncle could do anything

_ forty… twenty-nine... _

 

Heat, a body crouched over her. Elena’s counting stopped, her body shuddering hard. She couldn’t help but open her eyes a peek, catching a flash of her father’s scaled underbelly. It was alight with the burning fire that was no doubt boiling deep in the Dragon’s middle. Elena didn’t get a second look, feeling massive claws scoop her up as if she weighed no more than a lump of sugar. 

Out of the corner of her eye, an ice-blue Dragon unceremoniously tore off the legs of the twitching, spidery carcass that lay on the roof. She dimly recognised Mycroft’s slitted blue eyes glancing in her direction. Her father’s voice muttered in her ear before the Dragon’s wings spread, lifting her in the air. His cradling claws were as safe as any nest. 

**_“I told you not to look.”_ **

"People can see you." She replied shakily, looking down at the small crowd that had gathered below to gape at the creature soaring into the sky. Her father didn't respond, but Elena could distantly see her Dad's face in the ground. His pallor was paler than chalk, and his blue eyes never left hers, as if he could sense her gaze. Somehow, she knew that when they landed things were going to become troubling, very soon. 

 


End file.
